Shay clenches her hands to keep them from shaking, the shape of the hjabat indenting on her palm. She cannot be arrested. But if she is unable to return to Nezjar, where will she go? It stands to reason that if the realm's leaders wish to apprehend her, nowhere in Mekchaouen would be a safe haven. She could surrender and present her side of the story to Al-Mukhtar, but what would that mean for Hind? Bearing false witness is also a crime. Despite her betrayal, Shay couldn't stand to see the touched one come to harm.
“Human leaders aren't known for being the most just,” Dasri argues. “They're corrupted by power. And this current lot are the worst ones yet. For graves’ sake, they run a horse-drawn catering service to the bloodsuckers!”
“True,” Bono says, his voice now subdued. “But it is our way to stay out of human matters. Keep our interactions with them to those that serve our particular purpose.”
Aidi sighs heavily. “Very well. All those in favor of relinquishing the human girl to the authorities of her realm, raise your hand.”
Shay stares at the ring, afraid to breathe.
The memory of a dark spectacle comes to her once more, and this time she's helpless to suppress it. It closes around her like the crowds that pack the market roads, the kind of mob not looking to procure colorful spices or nuggets of incense—but to witness a horrific display.
She once had an elderly neighbor, a kind woman named Fatimazara who was thought to be the oldest woman in her medina. No one knew her exact age. Rumors placed her cycles somewhere between ninety and one hundred and twenty, not that her activity level was any indication.
Fatimazara made a habit of breaking into nearby dwellings when her neighbors were out, her clandestine mission a far cry from thievery or destruction. Rather, she left their floors and dishes cleaned, their dirty laundry washed and hung to dry. Fatimazara invited Shay and Ghita to her apartment every quarter for couscous. And she always brought them cakes and biscuits on holidays. What Shay remembers most are her twinkling eyes, her cheeky smile.
Fatimazara's twenty-cycles-old grandson was one of the first of Nezjar's citizens arrested for sedition. The night the Moulays took him, Fatimazara's heart gave out. The healers were busy at the time, dealing with an outbreak of the sweats, but Ghita possessed a rare sea bonnet flower, which the midwife used to whip up a sustaining tea.
Bedbound, the old woman asked Shay to attend the hanging in her place so the apprentice might offer a blessing for her grandson upon his final breath. After, Shay told Fatimazara the young man's death had been quick and painless. The old woman returned to God herself the following day.
In truth, his death had been anything but peaceful. Shay remembers every detail in brutal clarity. The awful crack of his neck when it snapped, a sharp but surprisingly wet sound, like crunching into an apple. The way his eyesbulged and his face contorted like he was being visited by some harrowing vision no one else could see. The stink of his bladder giving out, his limp body as it swayed over the spreading puddle, the rope still creaking when she had to look away.
Shay harbored doubts about the young man's guilt. Even when, after the hanging, the sweats ceased to spread, the stricken miraculously recovered, and everyone agreed it was a sign that rooting out the rebel had returned Nezjar to God's favor.
Would people draw the same conclusion about her? Imagining that rope around her own innocent neck, Shay sees her realm's injustices with newfound clarity: The gallows are a distraction from the truth. The Naturalists are right about Al-Mukhtar's miracles. They appear to be an act of God because no one ever sees who's really performing them.
But itmustbe touched ones.
The barkeep and Hind's neighbor both confirmed as much, hadn't they? And in a world where a mother can pretend to love her child while nurturing no such feeling, of course the men who portray themselves as above using magic would secretly rely upon it.
Slowly, Shay works up the nerve to look around the table.
Kabeer has his arms firmly crossed over his chest. Bono is picking his teeth with a knife. Only Deebi meets her eyes, giving a discreet nod, his hands shoved under the table as if to avoid any confusion regarding their position.
Shay exhales in relief. Not one of the brothers has raised his hand.
Aidi clears his throat. “All those in favor of giving the Lalla refuge here with us for as long as she needs, raise your hand.”
One by one, the hand of each brother goes up, with Bono waiting until all the others have raised theirs as though he enjoys drawing out the suspense.
“You mean …” Shay shakes her head, processing Aidi's words. “You want me to stay?”
“The world is a dangerous place for a human with a pure heart,” Aidi says. “But we won't let any harm come to you. Will we, Brothers?”
A series of grunts echoes around the table.
“Thank you.” Shay looks at each brother again, seeing past the mottled skin, eerily unblinking eyes, and horns of assorted variety. It seems she was wrong; her situation is no better than the fugitive rebels who hide here. But if the human world has no kindness to offer, then she'll dwell with monsters. At least they don't hide what they are. “Truly.”
“I do think it's in your best interest to give me the ring.” Aidi taps his clawed nails on the skull ornament. “To hold it safe for you, of course.”
Shay is transported to the moment she accepted the ring from Hind, a choice she can never go back and undo. It makes no sense to hold on to it now. So why does she feel like she's betraying her mother, or maybe even betraying herself, when she places it into the bone-eater's waiting palm?
Shay glances over her shoulder, again, making sure she's alone. Whatever presence she imagined she felt vanishes upon threat of observation. She turns back to washing dishes, startling at each creak of wind through the cottage's joints. With the kitchen scrubbed, she goes around and checks the shutters and door bars, twice.
Mice rustle in the walls; eaves whisper overhead. Flickers move just out of her vision, teasing her as she climbs to the room the bone-eaters have afforded her upstairs. With the brothers on their nightly outing, the cottage feels hollow, like a still-living heart with no beat.
Shay is unaccustomed to sleeping in an empty home.
She offers her prayers and is pulling down her blankets when a phantom itch creeps over her, like crawling ants set loose under her skin. Unable to shake the feeling, she finds herself standing in front of the window—it doesn't have shutters like the ones downstairs—watching downy snowflakes fall beyond the glass.
